


the gods must be against us

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Clint Barton, Don't Taste Deadpool-Brand Lube, Established Relationship, Feelings, I Find This Funny But I Have A Terrible Sense of Humour, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Service Top, Sexual Inexperience, Top Bucky Barnes, inconvenient interruptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:02:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24555886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: In which the world conspires to give Bucky Barnes the bluest balls in all the land. Clint has other ideas.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 48
Kudos: 297





	the gods must be against us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreyishBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyishBlue/gifts).



> For Bobbi. *Gabriel Good Omens Voice* Enjoy your pornography!

“I’m not wearing any underwear,” Clint tells him, and knowing Clint it’s not _meant_ to be sexy. Logically it would be uncomfortable to have no protection from the rough denim of his jeans rather than sexy. Bucky wouldn’t find it sexy except that it’s Clint, and Clint could wear clown shoes and a banana sling and Bucky would still be attracted to him.

“I’m wearing underwear,” Bucky says back. He is; they’re plain black briefs.

Clint laughs at that but it’s soft and pleased, not teasing. Bucky doesn’t know how to dirty talk; doesn’t know how people say it in real life without getting embarrassed. He’s trying, though. It looks like Clint appreciates it anyway, considering he’s letting Bucky push him up against a wall in the janitor’s closet.

They’ve been kissing so much that Bucky’s whole mouth is tingling with nerves he didn’t know he _had_. He meets hazy blue eyes and then they’re doing it again, Clint’s tongue in his mouth and hands on the skin of his hips where his hoodie has ridden up. It’s Clint’s hoodie anyway, an obnoxious shade of purple and Bucky’s more than happy to shuck it off when Clint’s fingers slide upwards.

He’s hot and dizzy with it, and Clint is squirming up against his body like it’s affecting him too. Bucky’s close enough that he can hear every shaky inhale, every rustle of fabric as Clint’s hips rub up against his.

“You should touch me,” Clint suggests.

“I _am_ touching you,” Bucky reasons quietly. His voice comes out hoarse from how turned on he is and something about it makes Clint’s eyes go darker, hotter.

“C’mon,” Clint says, impatient - it’s no wonder, when Bucky looks down and sees the bulge there, and his mouth goes dry. Shit. They’re actually doing this. They’re _finally_ doing this, and he can’t quite believe it but it’s hard not to when Clint’s got his lip caught in his teeth.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says, can’t quite find anything else beyond that in the face of how monumental this is. He’s touching Clint. He’s going to get in Clint’s pants, figuratively _and_ literally, on an unremarkable day in the middle of July.

It’s amazing. Bucky’s over the moon. His fingers are just slipping underneath the waistband of Clint’s jeans - and hey, look at that, he actually _isn’t_ wearing any underpants - when the door swings open.

“Barnes, did you find that mop you were fetching or did you die in-”

“Fuck _off_ ,” Bucky shouts as he turns to glare, loud enough that Clint flinches under his hands from the sound. Even Sam looks startled by the outburst, eyes going wide as he holds his hands up in a non-threatening gesture.

“Jesus, okay,” Sam says. “Forget about the mop.”

“Did you need anything else?” Clint asks the question but he looks distracted when Bucky turns to check on him, his gaze hazy.

One of his hands is pressed against Bucky’s chest and it flexes slightly, blunt nails digging in a little. It distracts Bucky enough that he forgets to snap at Sam again, looks at the way Clint’s hair is sticking up in five different directions and his cheeks are flushed.

He doesn’t _mean_ to lean in and kiss him again but it happens anyway, wet and hot and just a little dirty

“Yeah, so Enchantress is back and we need all hands on deck,” Sam says.

“For fuck’s _sake_ ,” Bucky spits.

Despite Thor’s protests, the news cheerfully broadcasts new footage of the Winter Soldier ‘accidentally’ shooting Enchantress in the foot, and then again a few seconds later in the other foot. Bucky can’t find it in himself to feel bad about it, and no one is particularly upset about it anyway considering it’s the third time she’s shown up to bother the Avengers in a week.

“Delivery for short, dark and hot! I have a present.”

“What is it?”

“It’s me. I’m the present.”

“You’re not cute,” Bucky says as he opens the door and catches an armful of happy, wriggly Clint Barton. He’s lying, of course - Clint is unbearably cute, and Bucky wouldn’t have him any other way - but it’s good to put up a little resistance.

Feet bump into the back of his thighs and Bucky hitches Clint a little higher, looks up at his smile. It’s like looking directly at the sun with how bright and gorgeous it is. Bucky’s won at this, for sure.

“I also brought lube,” Clint supplies. “It’s banana-scented. Flavoured? One of those, anyway.”

“That counts,” Bucky relents, accepts the kiss when it comes. It’s soft, a little teasing flick of Clint’s tongue before he draws back.

Then Bucky’s gotta watch the devastating shift of muscle as Clint leans back, taps Bucky’s fingers so he lets go. Somehow Clint ends up upside-down with his legs still curled around Bucky’s waist, braces his hands on the carpet and then drops into a handstand before removing his legs and neatly getting to his feet. Goddamn gymnast.

It also makes Bucky think about whether he’s that bendy during sex, because holy _hell_. That’s going to haunt his dreams for a while. Not that he doesn’t already dream about unreasonably athletic sex with Clint every night already.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says distractedly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You kinda snapped yesterday, Barnes,” Clint replies. He’s still smiling, but there’s a hint of worry in his eyes. It’s reasons like this that Bucky fell for him in the first place; there’s a lot of care hidden underneath the comedic personality and mind-melting hotness.

“Not because of _you_ ,” Bucky says. “I was mad at Wilson for… interrupting.”

Clint’s amused little smile turns into more of a smirk. “Been that long since you got laid, huh?”

“Something like that,” Bucky answers, can’t quite hold eye contact with him. “Anyway, it _keeps happening_.”

His complaint is fair, and Clint nods along with it. On Tuesday they’d had the goddamn delivery roomba walk in on them and for some reason it had felt wrong to do anything sexual in front of the thing despite FDR having no eyes to watch them with. If he picks it up it gets disoriented and beeps sad noises at him and Bucky actually feels guilty about it.

That’s not mentioning the straight month of interruptions they’ve had ever since they got more… physical. It feels like no matter what they do, somehow the world magically knows and gets in-between them.

It feels a little like god hates him, and Bucky’s had enough of that for a lifetime. Two lifetimes, even. He just wants to feel normal for once in his life, just spend some time with his boyfriend before they spend all the time they’ve got fighting monsters and men.

And yeah, maybe he wants to fuck Clint’s brains out so good that Clint can’t remember his own name but that makes him sound like he’s only in it for sex, and he’s not. 

God, he wants to have sex with Clint so _bad_.

“Stay here for a sec, alright,” Clint says, snapping Bucky out of his thoughts. “Trust me.”

He disappears out the door a second later. Bucky’s left standing in the hallway, vaguely disappointed but not particularly surprised at this point. He figures _what the hell_ , heads back to the fridge and fishes a can of shitty beer out.

It tastes horrendous but Bucky _feels_ pretty horrendous, sour about how life has disappointed him up until now. He’s not sure he even wants to _attempt_ using the lube that’s been slipped into the pocket of his pants because he’s almost certain someone will decide to bother him. Clint would probably say he’s grumpy. He _is_ grumpy.

He takes another mouthful of the beer, pulls the lube out to look at it.

Whoever designed the label clearly hasn’t been told that bananas aren’t meant to be an eye-searing shade of neon yellow. The whole thing is coloured in upsetting neons.

Bucky cracks the lid one-handed, lifts it up to his nose and then grimaces. It’s plasticky, artificial-smelling and honestly a little gross. There’s a faint banana scent to it, but that’s it. He looks at the label again. _Wade Wilson’s Banana Slick, Super Banana Flavour_. Where the hell did Clint find this stuff?

No. He shouldn’t.

But it says banana- _flavoured_. Bucky’s pretty sure he can’t get food poisoning anyway. He puts down the beer to tip out a drop of the lube onto his fingertip. It’s not neon yellow on the inside, at least. Ah, what the hell.

He spits it out immediately afterwards.

“Uh… you okay there, Buck?”

“Fine,” Bucky replies, lifting his head from the sink. He doesn’t want to explain why he was trying to wash his mouth out, because he’s at least trying to act _somewhat_ cool in front of Clint. Not that Clint really _cares_ , but it’s the principal of the thing.

“Okay,” Clint says, shrugs.

Doesn’t even ask. Of course he doesn’t. Bucky wipes his mouth with his sleeve and straightens up as Clint wanders closer, takes in his rumpled appearance and the fact that his belt has apparently been stolen, because his pants are sliding down his hips.

“Where’d you go?”

Bucky watches him sidle closer, automatically sets his hands on Clint’s waist when he gets within range. Clint props his arms on Bucky’s shoulders, leans in enough that his warmth is felt. It’s like they’re magnets, Bucky thinks vaguely. Weird, flirty human-shaped magnets.

“Alright,” Clint says with satisfaction. “Doors are locked and shut, I called that Murdock guy from Hell’s Kitchen to distract Nat, JARVIS has locked down the floor and elevator access is completely blocked. I gave Sam a giant book of crosswords to do and sent Tony’s delivery robot on a trip around the city.”

“Wow,” Bucky says.

“Also Moon Knight owed me a favour,” Clint adds. “So he’s doing - uh, whatever it is he does when I ask him to cause a distraction, which takes care of everyone else, especially Steve.”

Moon Knight? Jesus. Bucky doesn’t know why Clint hangs out with that guy, and he can only imagine what kind of a distraction it’d turn out to be. Hopefully he hasn’t stolen Mjolnir again - that was an adventure, but mostly it was Thor’s fault for leaving it on the back of a motorcycle. Still, it’s oddly endearing that Clint would go to that effort.

“All that so we can have sex?”

“Seemed like it was bothering you,” Clint reasons. “I don’t like it when you’re sad.”

“You’re adorable,” Bucky says, can’t help it. “I like you so much.”

“I like _you_ so much,” Clint returns, beams at him.

They stare at each other for a while long. It feels like it should be awkward - Bucky likes looking at Clint though, at the smattering of freckles across his nose and the little flecks of grey in his eyes. He doesn’t know what Clint’s thinking as he stares back but it doesn’t really matter. They’re fine.

All this is for one reason, though, so they may as well get to it. “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom,” Clint repeats cheerfully, catches his hand and tugs him in the right direction. “Have you still got the lube?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky says.

They _don’t_ worry about it, because Clint drops down on the end of the bed once he gets through the threshold, spreads his legs out relaxed and easy and then gives Bucky what is possibly the most mind-meltingly come-hither look he’s ever been given.

_Fuck_ but it’s hot, especially with Clint’s jeans still dangerously low. Bucky can see a dusting of gold hair trailing down his stomach where a sliver of skin is visible and he’s suddenly desperate to get his mouth on it, feel the flex of muscle under his teeth. He’s hopelessly, unbearably hot for Clint Barton and there’s no hope of recovery.

“Mister Barnes,” Clint says when Bucky doesn’t move, a little teasing smile on his lips. “You can touch the art, you know.”

Bucky swallows hard. He does take a minute to double-check that the windows are shut and locked, because you can’t be too sure with what’s going on, and then he does the only logical thing and stands between Clint’s spread knees, leans in close.

Clint’s eyes are dark and a little considering and he stays where he is, lips parted slightly like he’s waiting for Bucky to make the first move. Bucky’s burning up on the inside already but he does it, closes the distance and bites real slow at Clint’s lip, listens to the soft noise he makes.

They’ve never gotten much further than kissing before and it’s probably partially to do with the fact that he _likes_ kissing Clint. The urge to linger gets him every time; he wants to feel Clint’s mouth on his, wants to keep going until they’re both desperate with it. He knows how to do this part like the back of his hand, knows exactly what gets Clint squirming.

“C’mon, I want you,” Clint says, tugs off his shirt. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and now Bucky’s finding those low-hanging pants even more intolerable than before.

“I want you too,” Bucky answers softly, finally gets his fingers on Clint’s fly. “So bad.”

Clint helps him - probably for the best because Bucky’s hands have started fumbling numbly at the zipper and he’s not quite getting it right. He kicks his jeans off to the side somewhere and Bucky’s both amused and aroused to find he’s wearing no underwear today either. Is this a _thing_ with Clint?

It takes him a few seconds to realize Clint with no pants and no underwear means he can see Clint’s dick pressing hard against his stomach. God, that’s-

“So fucking pretty, Buck,” Clint says as Bucky kneels between his open legs because he can’t _not_ , he’s drawn in like a moth to a flame. “Been dreaming about you fucking me.”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, pictures it. He runs his hands up the curves of Clint’s thighs, feels warm skin and jagged scars under metal and flesh.

Just the simple act of touching him is addictive, and Bucky _wants_ him so bad and doesn’t have a single clue what he’s supposed to do with it. It’s just _hard_ , having all these feelings and none of the experience to back them.

“Let me make you feel good,” Bucky says, a thread of desperation winding its way into his voice as his confidence starts waning rapidly. “I want to- I just-”

“Hey,” Clint says, must pick up on some of the panic. His tone is softer than it usually is, and he covers Bucky’s hands with his own and squeezes gently. “You do make me feel good. You always do.”

“I know,” Bucky answers. “I’m just…”

Clint waits for him to finish, still holding onto his hands like it’s not a mood-killer at all.

Bucky’s so lucky to have him, honestly, and that thought is what makes him finally push the words out. “I’m not - I _want_ to, I just… don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t want to fuck it up.”

Because here’s the thing. The thirties and forties _sucked_.

No matter how many people in this day and age tell him they wish they’d been born in those times, Bucky’s opinion won’t change. Because sure, listening to the radio had been nice, and there hadn’t been supervillains, but most of it? _Terrible_ , especially for a guy who knew he was never going to feel that hot shiver of arousal for the pretty women that batted their eyelashes at him.

So yeah. Bucky doesn’t really know what he’s doing here. He feels his cheeks involuntarily flush red-hot with shame. It’s a stupid, useless reaction - he knows he’s not being judged here, that Clint doesn’t care whether he’s a fucking sex god or not, but his brain still finds it embarrassing.

Bucky glances up at Clint and he’s prepared for the awkwardness of it all. Before this they were just tumbling into closets and onto couches and once, notably, on a sun lounge in Fiji. There was never enough time and space to _think_ about it, and maybe that’s what he’s done wrong now.

He’s half-expecting a rejection but that’d be underestimating Clint Barton, and the world does enough of that already.

Instead he gets a lopsided grin and yet another bottle of lube tossed in his lap, although this one is cherry-flavoured. “You still want to do it?”

“You think I’d be here if I didn’t?”

“I’ll walk you through it,” Clint replies with a shrug, easy and simple. “You know the basics?”

“Vaguely,” Bucky says, uncaps the lube and squeezes some out onto his right hand. He ends up with too much, spills it out onto the carpet and glares at the smear uselessly before he rubs his fingers together. “Porn didn’t really… help.”

“Porn creates terrible standards for anal, honestly,” Clint comments, in a voice that says he’s had this conversation more than once. He shifts, braces one foot on Bucky’s shoulder and wiggles his toes.

Bucky turns his head slightly, notices Clint’s toenails are painted purple and it makes him smile. It’s an attempt to diffuse some of the nerves and once again he’s hopelessly grateful for Clint, presses his lips against the jut of bone just there. He rubs his thumb against the inside of Clint’s thigh, glances up at his face.

“This okay?”

“Two fingers,” Clint says. "C'mon."

Bucky acquiesces, presses two fingers inside and watches it for a few seconds before he glances up at Clint’s face. He’s careful about it at first, scissors gently until Clint catches his wrist and nudges him into speeding up.

“Bossy,” Bucky remarks, even though he appreciates it. “It’s not too much?”

“I know what I like,” Clint says. “I might be a boring old unenhanced human but I’m not gonna _break_ , Buck.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Bucky replies, rubs his free hand over Clint’s knee. It should be more nerve-wracking than this, he realizes vaguely. He’s having trouble being self-conscious when Clint’s taking him like this though, a soft noise slipping out his lips.

“That’s good, that’s good, I’m gonna - _oh_ ,” and the instructions break off as Bucky rubs his mouth against Clint’s dick as well, sucks at the shaft as he curls his fingers. He’d take it as a compliment if he wasn't so focused on making Clint even louder.

Bucky remembers the way Clint had gone boneless and soft under his hands in the janitor’s closet, presses his fingers into Clint’s hip hard enough to be felt. The white-hot intensity in Clint’s eyes when they flutter open squashes any worries that he’s doing it wrong, and then Bucky flicks his tongue and Clint moans and closes his eyes again, tips his head back like it’s too much.

“Stop, stop,” Clint says breathlessly, and Bucky freezes until he adds, “I need you to fuck me now.”

“Alright,” Bucky answers. “How do you - I mean-”

Once his fingers are removed Clint shifts back so he’s lying more securely on the mattress, head resting against the pillow as he motions for Bucky to follow. It’s so alluring he forgets about his pants for a second, has to haphazardly kick them and his briefs off before he kneels on the bed.

“It’s okay?” He’s gotta check. “I want it to be good for you.”

Clint’s hand presses gentle against the side of his face and Bucky leans into it, lets his eyes close for a second. “Stop worrying about me, I promise I’ll tell you if something’s wrong,” Clint says. “Now put your dick in me.”

“Sexy,” Bucky says dryly, turns his face to press his lips against Clint’s palm before he slides in, slow enough that it’s almost painful.

He’s so focused on getting it _right_ that he doesn’t think about the gravity of it all until he’s balls-deep and it’s so hot he’s blown away.

“Oh,” he says, suddenly breathless. “Oh, _Clint_.”

It’s so good. God, it’s _so_ good, it feels like everything else is crumbling away to nothing in the face of this. Bucky can barely focus on what his body’s doing, feels like he’s on fire.

“You’re doing great,” Clint breathes, wraps a leg around him like the world hasn’t just changed an alarming amount in one movement. Not for him, maybe. “You can move.”

The first thrust knocks the remaining air out of his lungs. By the second and third he’s stopped registering anything beyond the hot grip of Clint’s body around his dick and the shaky breaths coming from the both of them. He picks up a rhythm well enough, spurred on by Clint’s erratic orders of _harder_ and _more_ and _that’s great, yeah, c’mon Bucky._

“You just want me to do all the work,” Bucky says, not that he’s complaining.

“Maybe a little,” Clint says, gasps when Bucky wraps a hand around his dick. “ _Fuck_. Don’t stop.”

Bucky doesn’t stop - he _can’t_ stop, and maybe god doesn’t hate him after all if this is the reward for all that waiting. Clint’s pushing back against his dick restlessly, lip caught in his teeth. He catches Bucky around the neck, tugs him closer until they’re breathing each others’ air in, nearly kissing but not quite.

Bucky pushes in a particularly hard thrust and Clint cries out, knuckles bumping against Bucky’s skin as he works his fist over his cock.

It sparks hot in Bucky’s spine, sizzles through his limbs and he’s so turned on it aches. He doesn’t even realize how _close_ he is until Clint’s coming underneath him, wet stripes of cum on his chest and then it’s _Clint just came from sex with him_ repeating in his head and Bucky’s shuddering through his own orgasm.

“You’re kinda squashin’ me, Buck,” Clint says, minutes or days later. “Not that I don’t love cuddling, but you’re a little heavy.”

“Sorry,” Bucky replies automatically, his whole body tingling as he pushes up onto his hands. His mouth feels fuzzy. “Shit, I forgot about condoms, I’m-”

A hand covers his lips before he can finish.

“You’re _not_ sorry. Shush,” Clint says, rolls him to the side so they can stare at each other without worrying about Bucky’s arms giving out. It’s weird; he’s run miles without breaking a sweat, killed people without blinking, but sex with Clint Barton’s got him feeling all kinds of things. He’s half-tempted to start crying over it.

“Anyway,” Clint adds, lopsided smile back on his face. “I like it.”

“Good. I mean, uh,” Bucky says.

“I’m just glad we got somewhere without getting interrupted again,” Clint replies. He pats Bucky’s bare hip, fingers sliding down to brush Bucky’s dick along the way, his smile getting a tiny bit bigger when Bucky makes a noise. “I wasn’t _quite_ as close to murder as you were, but it was getting to me too.”

“Mm,” Bucky answers. His phone rings at that moment and he sighs.

Of course. There’s no way they could have more than a few seconds of afterglow. That’d be asking for too much; although he’s kind of impressed that the world held out without them for this long. Clint scrunches up his nose but Bucky’s taking the small victories, reaches for his phone where it’s lying on his bedside table and answers without checking who it is.

“ _Bucky?_ ”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “The fuck do you want, Steve, I’m kind of busy here.”

“ _Well, we just had an altercation with Moon Knight - he said something about Clint? It was strange - it’s all over now, and we’re heading over to the icecream place. You should come meet us there, we’ll-”_

“Nope. Busy.”

“ _Bucky_ , _we’ve talked about trying to be more social with the team, and considering your attitude lately I really think this’d be a good opportunity to spend some time w-”_

“StarkTech phones are expensive, y’know,” Clint comments as Bucky throws the offending device out the conveniently open window.

“Yeah, well,” Bucky says, wraps an arm around Clint to pull him close, tangle their legs together. “I got bigger priorities than going out for some goddamn icecream.”

“You’re cute,” Clint says.

That’s when Enchantress comes crashing through the _other_ window, screaming incoherently about vengeance and violence, and Bucky’s not particularly surprised by that but he _is_ surprised by Clint moving lightning-fast, grabbing the handgun Bucky keeps under his pillow and promptly shooting Enchantress in the foot for the third time this week.

“Get out or I throw you out,” Clint says, leveling it at her forehead without taking his eyes off Bucky. “You’re ruining the afterglow.”

Funnily enough, she goes.

“Is this what we have to deal with for the rest of our lives?”

“Probably,” Clint answers. “Want to try a vacation, purely for the point of having more sex?”

“Something’d go wrong,” Bucky says. “There’d be a new strand of the pox. You’ll develop an allergy. Deadpool will decide to crash the hotel room and then he’ll refuse to leave, and we can’t threaten him because he can’t die.”

“Mm. Can I suck you off now, then, see how far we get?”

“I…” Bucky says, about to completely give up for the night, and then he imagines it. “Yes. Fine. Please.”


End file.
